Pumpkins in August

I watched it break through the walls that defined its existence as a seed, reaching towards the sky with an unshakable faith that the sun would rise as the night melted into the morning. Joyful shoots and patient leaves. Prickly: spines I could feel when I rubbed my fingers together always eluded me when I tried to switch from feeling to seeing. Little tubes we called vines, kelly green.

I am fascinated by photosynthesis. Long before I knew anything about the existence of chloroplasts or electron carriers, I was enamored by what was green. How beautiful are the itty bitty leaves that bravely announce their arrival in the springtime; how sweet is the smell of the grass; how wonderful are the branches of the rosebush that defend what blooms in all its beauty?

What is a tree without leaves in the summertime? Does it frighten you when the seasons change too quickly?

Little is more dangerous than the way that resourcefulness gives way to greed. We picked the leaves while the pumpkins were still growing. Just a few at first, but soon, vines were slashed, exposed, and the sunlight could no longer nourish the seed. The plants begged for water but struggled to thrive without leaves.

Did the leaves double as spinach when cooked? Yes. But frozen spinach from Walmart would have allowed the vines to run along the soil instead of limping. The pumpkins were orange in August and the plants were dying.

I’m grown up now, about to be five years that I’ve been living on my own. I get mad sometimes because I don’t see fruit: children reap what parents sow. Yet, I am more. Everything worth having takes time to acquire and I don’t have to wait until I’m in my final form to inspire the people around me. Vines are intact because I need the energy of sunlight harnessed by the leaves. I won’t wither before God is ready for me.